


hold your hand out

by stillscape



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Murder-free AU, also snow!, shameless fluff, tinged with melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: “Betty?”“Jughead?”She blinks, and quickly swipes a gloved hand under each eye. Her eyes are a little red-rimmed, he notices, and her skin is on the blotchy side. That could just be the winter air, but it seems equally possible that Betty may have been crying.or: This wasn't how Jughead expected to spend his weekend.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 54
Kudos: 216
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	hold your hand out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartunsettledsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/gifts).



> This particular fic premise has been bouncing around in my brain since December of 2017. It was going to be a holiday gift fic for Liv, and then...well, I never managed to write it. 
> 
> Until now. 
> 
> Love, thanks, and warm winter hats to sully and skeptic, as always.

_When you find yourself in the thick of it_  
_Help yourself to a bit of what is all around you_  
_Silly girl_

\- The Beatles, "Martha My Dear"

  
  
  
  


It’s a rare Saturday morning in the Jones trailer that begins with an argument between its two occupants. The second Saturday in February is one of those mornings. 

Arguments are frequent. They just don’t usually happen early on Saturdays. F.P. has never been a morning person, and Jughead has always preferred to get up and go before his father awakens. He loves his father fiercely—why, he’s not always sure, but he does nevertheless. But Saturday morning also means the aftermath of Friday night, and F.P.’s Friday nights are something Jughead prefers to avoid at all costs. 

Besides, the curtains in the trailer’s living room, where Jughead sleeps, do a terrible job at blocking the morning light. Weak though Riverdale’s winter sun may be, it’s plenty strong enough to rouse someone on a couch whose cushions have been flat since approximately fifteen years before said someone was born. 

So Jughead wakes up. He wakes up, and he grabs clean (or clean-ish) clothes from his bin in the hall closet, and he showers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling charitable, he’ll leave hot water in the tank. More often, he claims it all for himself. The mirror is inevitably steamed over when he shaves and combs his hair afterwards, but since when has Jughead ever really needed to shave? And since when has anyone ever paid attention to his hair? He has his hat, after all. 

This morning, when he emerges from the trailer’s tiny bathroom, his father is seated at the kitchen table, fully awake and clad in his Serpents jacket. The thought that F.P. might not have gone to bed the previous night enters Jughead’s mind. He tries to dismiss it. 

“Morning,” F.P. says, jerking his head back at the counter to indicate he’s already made coffee. “Glad you’re up. Got a little job for you this weekend.” 

Jughead blinks, confused. “What? No.” 

“I didn’t even tell you what it is.” 

“Is it for the Serpents?” Jughead demands, and when his father gives a casual, lopsided grin in affirmation, Jughead plants his feet. “No,” he says. “Why are you even asking? You always said you didn’t want me involved in Serpent business!” 

“I don’t. But sometimes you gotta take one for the team.” 

Jughead clenches his jaw so tightly that the scraping surfaces of his molars send tiny, unpleasant vibrations through the whole of his face. He doesn’t play for this team. He doesn’t play for _any_ team. He committed long ago to his role as solitary weirdo. So far, since he moved back in, F.P. has been remarkably careful to keep his son and his gang apart whenever possible, a gesture Jughead both appreciates and resents. After all, it’s a gesture F.P. shouldn’t even have to make. 

He wishes Mr. Svenson had never discovered his broom closet nest. 

For his part, F.P. chuckles. “Hell, Jug. It’s nothing bad. You think I’d ask you to break the law?” 

The honest answer is yes. Jughead does not give it. He remains silent, but folds his arms across his chest. 

“For chrissake,” F.P. says, rolling his eyes. Then he opens the trailer door. “Send him in,” he calls to an unseen person—Tall Boy, probably—and then, _then_ Jughead moves. He drops to his knees without thinking, instinct taking over as he buries his hands in gray, snow-tinged fur. 

Not even Jughead Jones, confirmed solitary weirdo, can resist the charms of a large sheepdog puppy. 

“Meet Hot Dog,” says his father. “He belongs to the Serpents.” 

“Why would the Serpents collectively own a sheepdog?” 

“Dunno, but we always have.” F.P. shrugs. “Look, just keep him alive for the weekend, okay? Can you do that?” 

Of course Jughead can keep a puppy alive for the weekend. He’s a weirdo, not an idiot. 

Before he can give this retort, the door slams behind F.P., leaving Jughead and Hot Dog alone. Jughead has been given neither dog food nor a sense of whether the puppy is housebroken. He moves from his crouch to a more comfortable cross-legged position on the floor, and Hot Dog, clearly taking him for the sucker that he is, climbs into his lap at once. 

“How old are you, anyway?” he wonders aloud. The puppy is big enough that he doesn’t fit in Jughead’s lap, or at least, he doesn’t entirely fit. This seems to bother Hot Dog not one bit. He nudges Jughead’s hand hard with his nose, then licks it in what Jughead takes as a request for more extensive petting. 

He’s happy to oblige. The two of them sit there for a long, long time, silent except for Hot Dog’s gentle pants. When Jughead gets up to find something for breakfast, Hot Dog trails him around the kitchen, then sits at Jughead’s feet, waiting patiently for crumbs to fall. 

(Inevitably, a few do. Jughead is a sucker, after all.) 

Around noon, the puppy suddenly leaps to his feet and runs to the door, whining. 

“Guess you’re at least a little housetrained,” Jughead says, not without relief. 

Then he realizes that the dog didn’t come with a leash, either.

  
  
  
  


Ten or so minutes later, the two are on their way north through the woods, an old length of clothesline attached to Hot Dog’s collar with one of those knots Fred Andrews insisted he and Archie should know how to tie. It makes a serviceable enough leash. A couple of plastic grocery bags, which Jughead prays are free of holes, have been crammed into his pocket along with his wallet. 

Wind whips through the trees, sending snowflakes flying into both their faces. This is cause for ecstasy on Hot Dog’s part; the puppy bounds cheerfully along at the end of his makeshift leash, biting at the snow. For his part, Jughead is not so thrilled; he owns neither gloves nor a scarf, and while he can usually convince himself that he doesn’t miss those particular accessories, wind never helps in so doing. 

Still, they’ve got to make it to Riverdale’s one pet store for some dog food. And it’s not as though Jughead was going to do anything other than sit in Pop’s with his laptop all day. On some level, this excursion is probably good for him. He pops the fleece collar of his jacket, hoping to prevent at least a few flakes of snow from blowing down his neck, and trudges on. 

Hot coffee would be nice. Hot chocolate would be nice. Hot anything would be nice. 

“You got any dog friends?” he inquires of the puppy, who—being a puppy—does not answer except to wag his tail. “Wish I could introduce you to Vegas.” 

Not _just_ Vegas. He wishes he could introduce Hot Dog to Archie and Fred, too. Last summer, the summer between sophomore and junior years, was supposed to be the one that Jughead and Archie finally took the road trip they’d been dreaming about since well before either of them learned to drive. Instead, it became the summer that the Andrews men moved to Chicago. Glad though Jughead was and is that Fred and Mary decided to give things another go, and that Archie got his nuclear family back, there’s been an athletic, redheaded hole in the middle of Riverdale ever since the Andrews’ truck pulled out on the Fourth of July. 

(The athletic, redheaded hole got even bigger in the fall, when Cheryl and Jason Blossom departed for college—but good riddance to _them_.) 

He wonders whether sheepdog puppies get too cold in the snow, then has a moment of panic and reels Hot Dog in for a quick check. The puppy is all too happy to stop for a pat. His skin is warm under Jughead’s newly ungloved hand. 

“You okay, buddy?” he mutters, and Hot Dog gives a comically large full-body shake before pulling Jughead down an unknown woodland path.

  
  
  
  


Jughead may not know exactly where they’re going, aside from generally north towards the pet store, but Hot Dog seems to have some kind of destination in mind. Either that, or he’s not leash-trained. 

Well, he’s definitely not leash-trained. That had been obvious the moment he galumphed down the steps of their trailer, causing Jughead to almost wipe out on the slippery wood. Things have not improved since. In fact, if Jughead was confident the puppy would come when called, he would let him off the clothesline leash, which has damn near rubbed his frozen palm raw. 

Just as he thinks this, Hot Dog succeeds in pulling both himself and the skin on Jughead’s palm loose with a final, sharp tug. He bounds excitedly ahead, clearly thrilled at his new and total freedom. 

“Ow!” Jughead yells. He takes half a second to wince at the damage—his palm stings like hell, but there doesn’t seem to be any blood—before taking off after the puppy. “Hot Dog. _Hot Dog!_ ” 

His voice echoes in the lonely forest.

  
  
  
  


There is, at least, enough snow on the ground to make tracking the dog easy. Jughead shoves his hands into his jacket pockets for warmth and hurries as fast as he can with his arms restrained. Even he can tell it’s even more awkward than his usual running style, but he can’t bring himself to care—his focus is on finding the puppy. Besides, there’s no one to see him. 

Except that, when he crashes through the edge of a snow-covered thicket and stumbles into a clearing, there is. 

He’s found Hot Dog, and Hot Dog has found Betty Cooper. She’s seated on a fallen log; Hot Dog is seated on her, happily swiping his tongue over her cheek. 

“Betty?” 

“Jughead?” 

She blinks, and quickly swipes a gloved hand under each eye. Her eyes are a little red-rimmed, he notices, and her skin is on the blotchy side. That could just be the winter air, but it seems equally possible that Betty may have been crying.

“Is he yours?” On Jughead’s nod, she sniffles once and then says, “I didn’t know you got a puppy.” 

“I didn’t. Hot Dog belongs to…” _To the Serpents?_ No. He has no desire for Betty to learn of his familial connection to that particular organization. “A friend of my dad’s. I got stuck watching him for the weekend.” 

Hot Dog, clearly delighted by everything about the person of Betty Cooper, yelps happily and nuzzles closer against her. 

“Well,” she says, almost smiling, “I can think of worse responsibilities to get stuck with.”

  
  
  
  


He cannot remember the last time he was alone with Betty. He can’t really remember _ever_ being alone with Betty, not truly, although they’ve known each other all their lives. Someone else has always been with them: Archie through most of their childhoods, and starting in middle school, sometimes Kevin. Last year it was often Veronica, but now that Veronica has re-enrolled at Spence and moved back to her Park Avenue high-rise… 

Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Betty with Kevin very much lately, either. The two of them, adept at navigating the shark-infested waters of Riverdale High as they are, docked peacefully at another lunch table following Archie and Veronica’s simultaneous departures. Jughead was left high and dry on his own personal island. 

This would be just fine with him, except for the following three facts: one, sitting alone means he has no one from whom to mooch extra chips; two, there’s a difference between being a loner and being truly _alone_ , and three, he’s been harboring a secret crush on Betty Cooper since the first wave of pubescent hormones began coursing through his body. 

“You okay, Betty?” He ventures a step or two closer, and to his surprise, Betty brushes some snow from the log and gestures for him to sit next to her. This he does. 

“Yes,” she says, though her tone is unconvincing. 

They may not have had a real conversation in months, but—well, he’s known Betty Cooper for all of their lives. 

He wishes he had a tissue to offer her. Instead, he raises his eyebrows. 

“I _am_ ,” she insists. “I am, overall. It’s just been a rough week.” 

“Anything in particular?” 

Betty shakes her head, dislodging snowflakes from both the end of her ponytail and her fuzzy earmuffs. 

“No. I’m just…overwhelmed, I guess?”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Jughead says, even though he’s sure he doesn’t; between the River Vixens, quiz bowl team, and the dance organizing committee, Betty is approximately fourteen times busier than he is. 

“Everything changed so quickly. I knew things would be different this year with Polly at college, but then Archie left, and then Veronica left too. And Kevin’s basically abandoned me since he met Joaquin.” 

“The sheriff’s son with a junior gang member,” Jughead mutters. He’s never personally met Joaquin, but he knows damn well who Joaquin is. “Whoever would’ve thought?” 

“I’m happy for Kevin. I really am.” 

They fall into silence for a while after that. Betty does not express jealousy, and Jughead doesn’t push the issue further, but he can’t help but wonder whether Betty feels the absence of romance in her own life. Her crush on Archie has been over for a year at least, he knows that. He also knows that Betty has been on nary a date for the entirety of high school, save for attending a couple of dances with Trev Brown—but he’s pretty sure she asked him, not the other way around. He’s also pretty sure the two of them never even kissed, although he’s incapable of articulating _why_ he’s pretty sure of that. It could just be wishful thinking on his part. 

“It’s just—I mean, Polly went all the way to Colorado, you know? She’s got a completely different life now. Veronica and I text, but it’s not the same.” She sighs. “I guess sometimes it feels like I don’t have anyone.” 

Perhaps it’s the sting of the cold air that makes Jughead clear his throat. Perhaps it’s the sting of resentment that Betty no longer seems to consider him even a friend, or the sting of idiocy that shoots through him at that thought; he knows Betty _used_ to consider him one, and if that’s gone now, it’s his own damn fault. 

Belatedly, he realizes that Betty’s feeling of being overwhelmed is coming not from too many activities, but from too few people. 

And—well, weirdo loner he may very well be. But he is also a person, and Betty needs a person right now. 

Jughead clears his throat, first once and then a second time, and forces himself to look directly at her. He even goes so far as to allow his hand to rest on her sleeve before he speaks. 

“We still have each other, Betty.” 

She nods with eyes downcast, then adjusts her earmuffs before looking up at him. “Do you ever wonder why we let ourselves grow apart?” 

Maybe it’s the winter wonderland aspect of it all—the fat snowflakes drifting lightly down on them, the brisk wind, the pink-tinged sky—that’s allowed Betty to be vulnerable. Maybe it’s the weather that allows Jughead to be the same. Or maybe it’s just the hunger deep in his belly, omnipresent but stronger than usual, that’s compelling him to be brutally, painfully honest. 

Or maybe it’s the presence of the sheepdog puppy, who has wriggled his way from Betty’s lap to his own, and now wags his tail against Jughead’s leg. 

“All the time,” he tells her. “Literally every single day since Archie and Fred split.” 

Betty nods, then startles at what seems to him to be nothing. “Oh, my god, Jug. Where are your gloves?” 

“What?” he asks, momentarily taken aback. 

“Come on,” Betty says, standing up and brushing off the seat of her pants. She extends a hand to him. “Let’s go somewhere warmer.” 

“I’m not cold.” 

Betty fixes him with a withering and thoroughly unconvinced look. “Yes, you are. I could feel your hand through my sleeve.” She loops Hot Dog’s clothesline around her wrist. “I’ll take Hot Dog. You keep your hands in your pockets.” 

“You don’t have to—” 

“Oh, but I do,” she replies, smiling at him. “I’d never forgive myself if you lost your fingers to frostbite before you wrote the Great American Novel.”

  
  
  
  


Either Hot Dog has worn himself out, or become too cold to frolic further, or Betty has some sort of magic touch, because the puppy walks like he’s vying for the Westminster Kennel Club title now that she has the leash. Jughead’s pace matches hers just as self-consciously; though they’re walking side-by-side, he’s definitely following her lead. Where Betty is taking them, he’s not quite sure, having completely lost his sense of direction while he chased Hot Dog through the woods. 

He has not lost his sense that their conversation isn’t quite over, and clears his throat a little in preparation. 

“Are you not, like…” He hesitates, groping for the right words. “You’re a cheerleader now.”

Those must not be the right words, because a slight scowl crosses Betty’s brow. “So?” 

“Aren’t you friends with them?” 

She lets out a light snort. “The River Vixens? Cheryl may be gone, but they’re still loyal to her. They won’t kick me out, but I’m never going to be part of their inner circle.” 

“No?” 

She shrugs. “It’s on me as much as it is them. I haven’t really tried to fit in.”

Jughead doesn’t ask why not, but she seems to sense the question anyway. 

“Can I confess something?” She waits for him to nod before continuing. “I wanted to be a River Vixen for so long, but it turns out I don’t actually like cheerleading that much.”

“You don’t?” Jughead has been to more school sporting events than he would care to admit. It was a downside of his broom closet residency—best to be on the edges of the crowd, keeping an eye on things, just in case. He’s never spotted a trace of discomfiture in Betty’s demeanor. 

(And he is, to his own shame, only ever looking at her during any given River Vixens routine.) 

“Not really,” she sighs. “I’m not going to quit; I need the extracurricular. But I think—I think maybe I just wanted to be a cheerleader because I had some weird idea that it would solve all my other problems, or something.” 

_Other problems._ “The…Archie problem?” 

“No, that was never the reason. I mean, I didn’t think it would hurt the Archie problem. But I think I wanted to be a River Vixen so badly because I saw how happy it made Polly. That’s what I wanted.” She pauses for a moment. “It turns out that Polly and I aren’t very much alike.” 

“Thank God for that,” Jughead blurts at once. He can see the attraction of Polly Cooper—of course he can, she looks very much like Betty, and on the surface she’s nice in the same way that Betty is nice—but Polly Cooper has always struck him as flighty, shallow, and selfish. 

“Hey. That’s my sister you’re talking about,” Betty says, but her voice is teasing as she elbows him gently in the ribs. 

Best to change the subject before he inadvertently gets his entire combat boot stuck in his mouth. “Where are we going?” 

Betty looks at him as though he’s grown a second head. “Pop’s. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry.” 

“You know me too well, Cooper,” he says. “But we can’t go inside Pop’s with a puppy.” 

“I’ll get takeout.” She holds her head higher, giving her an air of defiance. “We can eat at my house.” 

For anyone else, this would not be a defiant act. However, he was in earshot on the memorable occasion that a muddy Vegas got loose from the Andrews’ backyard and wandered into the Coopers’ house through an open patio door. “Your parents won’t mind if we bring a puppy inside?” 

“They’re not home. They’re visiting Polly this weekend. Plus, I’m trying not to care so much about what they think.” She shrugs. “As long as we clean up after him, it’ll be fine.”

He really is famished. “If you’re sure…” 

“I am,” she says firmly. “Besides, you’ve barely said a word about what you’ve been up to since Archie moved. I want to hear about your life, too.”

  
  
  
  


As it turns out, Hot Dog is so tuckered out from their escapades that he’s no trouble at all. He accepts a thorough toweling, then gratefully slurps down the water Betty offers him (from what looks like one of her mom’s best serving bowls, which Jughead considers an excellent defiant touch). After a halfhearted attempt to exercise his instinctual canine interest in their burgers and fries, he curls up on the blanket Betty’s placed on the floor and falls into a deep, dead sleep. 

“This really is quite the act of teenage rebellion, Cooper,” Jughead says, as they settle themselves on the sofa. His wet boots have been abandoned at the mudroom door, and he finds himself unreasonably grateful that he’s wearing one of his less threadbare pairs of socks. A mug of black coffee, piping hot and freshly made by Betty, sits on the coffee table with his burger and fries. 

“If you only knew,” Betty replies. When she pulls her feet onto the couch and tucks them underneath her, he sees that _her_ socks are thick and cozy-looking. “Wet dog in the house? Eating in the living room? I’m really living on the edge, here.” 

“Not to mention you have a boy over without supervision.” It’s meant to be a joke, but when Betty’s brow furrows slightly, he regrets it at once. 

“You’re not _a boy_ ,” she says. 

“I’m hardly a eunuch.” 

Betty rolls her eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“What did you mean, then?” he demands, then takes an unreasonably large bite of cheeseburger to prevent any further incriminating words from falling out of his mouth. 

“You’re Jughead. We’ve been friends forever,” Betty says. “You wouldn’t try anything.” 

A response comes out, slightly muffled by all the food. “Wouldn’t I?” Damn it. 

“No.” Betty sounds almost confused now. “You wouldn’t. Not even if—never mind.” 

“Not even if what?” 

Betty, too, has taken an unreasonably large bite of cheeseburger. Unlike Jughead, she chews and swallows, which not only displays her excellent table manners, but also gives her the chance to choose her words carefully. He can practically see those words churning around inside her head. 

“Not even if someone wanted you to,” she says quietly. 

He has to think for a moment before her meaning hits him. “What? You mean Ethel?” 

“No, silly. I know you don’t like Ethel.” Betty picks up her coffee mug and cradles it for a moment before bringing it to her lips. She does not take a sip. Instead, she mutters, “I meant me.” 

Jughead, whose mouth is now empty, nearly chokes anyway. 

“ _What_?” 

“Nothing,” she says quickly, then sighs, braces herself, and turns to him. “Okay, look. There was a point last year—after Archie and Veronica broke up for what, the third time? There were a couple of weeks when it was you and me and one or the other of them, and it almost felt like they were the third wheels to us, instead of the other way around. And once I imagined that situation, I realized…well, not realized, I guess. I thought there was a chance you might like me.” 

With this life-altering proclamation, Betty shrugs lightly, and takes the tiniest sip of coffee imaginable before setting her mug down on its coaster. 

Surely— _surely_ —he cannot have just detected a note of disappointment in her voice. 

“But you never made anything I could interpret as a move, so I decided you must not,” she concludes. “It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it.” 

“Betty.” He swallows, though nothing goes down, not even his fear. “Did you—did you like _me_?” 

“Honestly, Jug? I don’t know. I might have, a little. I thought, _maybe?_ Or I thought probably could. But when I didn’t get any signals from you, I…made those thoughts stop.” 

He slumps back against the couch and rips his beanie absently from his head, certain, in that moment, that he is the stupidest person in the history of the universe. 

“Did you tell anyone?” 

“What? No, of course not. Not even Veronica or Kevin. I knew you wouldn’t want me to.” She sits up straighter than an entire quiver of arrows. “Like I said, it’s fine, and we don’t have to talk about it.” 

Betty picks up her cheeseburger and takes another decisive bite, which means she’s the one who almost chokes when, to his own surprise, Jughead blurts out, “Is it too late?” 

This time she doesn’t swallow before speaking. “What?”

“Is it too late?” he asks, trying valiantly to catch up with his own stomach, which seems to be rolling pit-first and pell-mell down some kind of hill. “Is it too late for me to—to make some kind of move?” 

Now, Betty swallows. “No?” she says, but the word very much comes out as a question, not a definitive statement. “I mean—what exactly are you asking me, Jug?” 

_It’s now or never_ , he thinks. Then he wipes his greasy fingers on the thighs of his jeans, slides those fingers behind Betty’s ears, and kisses her. 

Their lips part, but only by millimeters. He counts one breath, then two. On the third breath, Betty kisses him back. 

“I don’t think it’s too late,” she whispers, on the breath after that. He pulls back enough to look at her: eyes still closed, a delicate smile on her soft, pink lips. 

“No?’

Her eyes flick open, bright and green and full of life. “No.” She pulls his right hand into her lap, turns it over, and frowns slightly at the raw skin on his palm. “Oh, my god. Jughead, what happened?” 

“Rope burn. It’s nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing,” she chides gently, and he realizes she’s entirely right. The rope burn is why he let go of Hot Dog’s leash. It’s why Hot Dog was able to run to Betty. In a very roundabout way, it’s why he’s here right now. That makes it very definitely something. “I’m going to clean that up for you when we’re done eating.” 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

“You promise you’ll let me?” 

Jughead holds the offending hand to his heart. “I swear on my long-lost stash of Baxter Brothers novels.” 

(He thinks he would let her do anything.)

Outside, the gentle snowfall turns into a raging snowstorm.

  
  
  
  


Despite the two kisses they’ve already shared, Betty doesn’t seem quite ready to go for a third—well, aside from the one she presses to his palm after her promised doctoring of his scraped skin. On the other, non-injured hand, nor does she seem ready for Jughead to leave. After they’ve finished lunch, she disappears upstairs for a moment, returning with two books. One is Toni Morrison’s _Beloved_ ; he recognizes it as the copy Betty took to her internship two summers ago, the one that now bears an inscription from the author on its inside cover. The other is an old Baxter Brothers/Tracey True crossover, which she presents to him with a shy smile. 

“Where’d you find this?” 

“In my closet. I knew exactly where it was.” She grins at him. “I never got rid of my copies.” 

“I never meant to get rid of mine. They just disappeared at some point.” 

“You can borrow mine any time,” Betty tells him. “I’m going to make hot chocolate; do you want some?” 

In addition to the hot chocolate, she brings an oversized throw blanket. Then she sits on the couch and swings her legs up lengthwise, tucking a pillow behind her back before she settles the blanket over her legs. 

“Are you warm enough, Jug?” she asks, after a few minutes of quiet reading time. “Here, you can—” She gestures between them, clearly intending for him to mirror her and put his feet up on the couch, too. 

He _is_ warm enough, but—well, he could always be warmer, and so he does exactly what Betty wants. 

Betty buries her face back in her book, but wraps her feet around one of his legs and squeezes gently. After a moment’s hesitation, he nudges back.

  
  
  
  


What Jughead wants is his laptop. No, more than that—he _needs_ his laptop. His fingers are practically twitching, overflowing with all the words that have built up inside him over the course of the afternoon. 

But with a foot of snow now on the ground, he and Hot Dog can hardly walk home, and with the roads yet to be salted or plowed, Betty can hardly drive them. Instead, she decides they should stay the night. She finds a can of dog food in the pantry (left behind by Vegas Andrews, for some reason) and an old pair of her dad’s pajamas in a bureau. He assumes she means he’ll be sleeping on the couch; instead, she makes up Polly’s bed for him. 

“You’re sure your dad won’t freak out?” she asks, giving him the furrowed brow again.

Jughead so very wants to kiss that furrowed brow, but instead snorts. His dad would almost certainly clap him on the back and congratulate him for infiltrating a girl’s house and getting invited to spend the night, but Betty doesn’t need to know that. “Nah. I’m sure he’d rather I not be out on the road in this weather.” 

Betty’s parents left her with a fridge full of prepared healthy meals. They eat dinner at the big table, and with the Cooper house as fancy as it is—there’s a fresh floral centerpiece, for God’s sake—it feels almost like being on a real date. To him, anyway. He supposes that for Betty, sitting in her own house and eating her mother’s cooking, the atmosphere is nothing like a date. 

Each of the Cooper girls’ bedrooms has its own bathroom. Jughead’s showered already today, but Polly’s bathroom has a full-sized tub, which the Jones family trailer most certainly does not. 

He can’t resist the opportunity, especially not after taking Hot Dog out for a final time leaves him damp and chilled to the bone again. Plus, he can do now what he was never able to do as a child (having never had a bathtub), and bring his book into the bath with him. 

When he emerges, warm from both the bath and the nostalgia of reconnecting with something he thought he’d lost, he finds that Hot Dog has made himself right at home on Polly’s bed. 

“At least move your head off the pillow,” he tells the dog, who licks him in response and then puts his head right back where it was. 

He has no laptop, but Betty’s placed a blank notebook and a couple of pens on the nightstand, along with a few more Baxter Brothers books. The notebook and pens are what he reaches for once he’s climbed into bed. He’s filled two pages with scribbles when he hears Betty’s shower turn off and her hair dryer turn on. He’s four pages in when he senses her presence in the doorway.

“This is cute,” she says, and he looks up to see her gesturing at him and Hot Dog. Betty’s hair is down, flowing in gentle waves over her shoulders, and she’s wearing pink flannel pajama pants and a matching pink top. This, Jughead thinks—now, _this_ is cute. 

He should probably tell her so, but his tongue seems to have stuck to the roof of his mouth. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Betty has become focused on the notebook in his hands, frowning at it in concentration.

“Jug?” she ventures. “I had a thought in the shower.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You like writing. I like writing.” 

“So?” 

“So we should write!” she says. “We should relaunch the school newspaper together.” 

“I don’t think reporting on the water polo squad is where my strengths lie, Betty.” 

“Not that.” She waves a dismissive hand as she crosses the room and perches on the edge of the bed. “I mean, Weatherbee would probably force us to do that stuff, too, but it won’t be our focus. I’m talking about real investigative journalism.” 

He can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. At _her_. 

“What are we going to investigate, Betty? Riverdale isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime.”

“Not that we know of. But It’s entirely too quiet, don’t you think? Something has to be simmering under the surface.” 

“Something like what?” he wonders aloud. “Hiram Lodge laundering money through shady real estate deals? Or do you think the Blossoms have links to the Quebec maple syrup cartels?” 

“Maybe,” Betty says, her green eyes twinkling. “Or maybe we won’t find anything so juicy. But you seem intrigued, so I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“I didn’t say yes.” 

Now she outright grins at him. “You didn’t need to. I’ll meet you after school on Wednesday, okay? I’m sure I can talk Weatherbee into letting us start things up by then.” 

She slides off the bed, clearly preparing to go into her own room, but Jughead reaches out for her, letting his hand trail down the smooth skin of her arm until his fingers close around her wrist. Betty freezes at once. Faster and faster beats his heart. 

“Can I meet you after school on Monday?” he asks. “Not for the paper. For a milkshake at Pop’s.” 

The smile that’s been lingering on Betty’s face seems to renew itself, growing brighter and broader as she tilts her head to one side. “Jughead Jones. Are you asking me out on a date?” 

“I am,” he admits. The Valentine’s Day dance is next weekend, but he’s not sure he can bring himself to contemplate asking Betty to go with him just yet. “It only seems appropriate.” 

(He’s not sure he can bring himself to contemplate _going_ just yet, with or without—well, no. It will be a cold day in hell before he goes to a school dance without Betty. He’s just thankful none occurred during his broom closet residency.)

“Well,” she says, “unlike you, I _will_ say yes.” 

Betty twines their fingers together, and she leans over to give him one kiss, short but tender, before she leaves him in Polly’s bedroom. 

“Good night, Jughead. Good night, Hot Dog.” 

“Night,” Jughead echoes. 

In the doorway, she pauses. “Sweet dreams,” she tells him.

  
  
  
  


The sheets smell like Betty. He knows that really, they smell of whatever laundry detergent the Coopers use. Still, that’s more than good enough for him. He burrows under the covers— _god_ , this mattress is comfortable—and allows himself to imagine one day sleeping with Betty cuddled up beside him. 

(Not that he doesn’t like having Hot Dog beside him. Hot Dog is, officially, his favorite Serpent.) 

He dreams of Betty.

  
  
  
  


In the morning, he finds a text from his father. It’s composed entirely of emojis, but he understands it to mean “How are you and Hot Dog getting along?” 

He rolls over enough to scratch Hot Dog’s belly before replying. 

_We’re good,_ he types back.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Jug?” comes Betty’s voice. 

“I’m awake,” he calls back, forcing himself upright. “Kind of.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“Yeah.” 

She’s truly a vision, and even better in real life than she was in his dreams: still in her adorable pajamas and cozy socks, but also holding two mugs of coffee, one of which she hands over before climbing into the bed and tucking herself under the blankets beside him. 

“Hi,” she says, somehow confident and shy at the same time. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” He sets the mug on the side table and types one more sentence to his dad before sliding his arm around Betty’s shoulders. 

_Keeping warm._

  
  
  
  


(fin)

**Author's Note:**

> As always - I'd love to know your thoughts when you have the time ❤️


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